


When We Have It

by Ben_Solo_Good_Boy_Sweater_Emporium



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Romance, Best Friends, Drabble Collection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Marvel Universe, No Smut, One Shot Collection, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 11:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ben_Solo_Good_Boy_Sweater_Emporium/pseuds/Ben_Solo_Good_Boy_Sweater_Emporium
Summary: This is a series of drabbles and one shots that I wrote over a period of years. Some are AU takes on things in the MCU, some are fill-in scenes. As a result, there may be minor inconsistencies between them. I have tried to clearly label where each falls in the timeline, and hopefully everything makes sense.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**[Alternate scene for _Age of Ultron_ (2015)]**

The house was dark as Natasha let herself out the side door. She had been thrashing uselessly around on a battered futon in the spare room for a couple of hours, getting steadily more frustrated at her inability to settle. Tony’s snoring from the next room had finally driven her out, long past midnight.

The cold air hit her face like a slap. It was exactly what she wanted. She had stayed at the farm before, had mentally mapped the terrain, just in case; you never knew when you would need to make a tactical retreat. She headed left off the side stoop, jumping noiselessly over a creaky step and narrowly missing an abandoned ball in the process. The song of the katydids was relentless and shrill. There was a large tree on the crest of the nearest hill where Natasha knew she would find an old tire swing, a solitary place to try and focus.

The morning would not leave her. The memory of the vision remained sharp, less a fading nightmare than a film reel endlessly looping in her mind’s eye. As she carefully picked her way up the slope, avoiding roots and brush by a sliver of moonlight, she tried to push down the tension in her chest.

Natasha had willed herself to forget so much about the Red Room. Not the events that had occurred there—she had recorded every one of those with clinical detachment, a catalogue raisonné of trauma. What she had beaten into submission and buried in the deepest grave of her psyche was the _feeling_ of being in the Red Room. The terror and helplessness and isolation. The searing hatred of both her captors and herself, as she excelled at every unholy task they set her. All of it came rushing back today with the force of a tsunami, knocking the breath from her body and drowning out everything good she had cobbled together inside herself in the years since.

Near the top of the hill she stopped, suddenly aware that someone else was close by. The rasp of rope sliding over wood told her the tire swing was already occupied. It was too late for any of the kids to be out of bed. Moving carefully sideways, she recognized the shape of Steve.

She hesitated, debating whether to head back toward the house. On the quinjet, Steve had tried to ask if she was alright, but she had shut him down with a curt nod. Several times since, Natasha noticed him watching her, his concern obvious. He was hopeless at hiding anything. She felt a twinge of guilt for avoiding him. They had been partners for more than a year, which was as close as either of them got to having an actual friendship. Steve might have seen something disturbing in his own vision; he might be reaching out just to talk to someone. Since the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., she felt closer to him than to anyone else except Clint, but she wasn’t sure she was capable of confidences right now. She didn’t know how to share secrets, only protect them.

“You waiting for me to leave?” he called down softly, startling her. Apparently, she wasn’t as good at hiding as she thought.

“Course not,” she answered, climbing the rest of the slope. “I wasn’t sure you wanted to be disturbed.”

“Seems like we had the same idea,” he said, circling around to face her.

“To get the hell out of that stifling house, away from Tony’s buzz saw of a snore?”

“More like, find a private spot to regroup. Clear out the fog.”

It was a little unnerving how right he was, so she deflected. “I think we both know you were just dying to get up here and try out this swing. You don’t have to pretend with me. I see through the tough guy exterior.”

It was impossible to read his expression but he looked at her for a moment then said quietly, “Do you?”

“Is there room on there for two?” she asked, deliberately ignoring the question.

“If the branch doesn’t break, I guess.”

“I don’t think I like your implication, Rogers.” She climbed gracefully onto the swing. The limb dipped threateningly and groaned, but held. It was an oversized tire, though there still wasn’t much room inside it; their legs wove rather uncomfortably together. Natasha leaned her cheek against the tattered rope. A gust of wind ran through the canopy and set them slowly spinning. A few fireflies blinked in and out of sight.

“First time on a tire swing?” she asked. Better to steer the conversation to safer ground.

He seemed to consider. “Maybe. I mean, I certainly didn’t have access to anything like this place when I was growing up. I might have been on an amusement park ride or two that were similar.” After a minute he added, “I wasn’t born in a cave, you know. We were poor but I did have _some_ fun.”

She smirked, though he likely couldn’t see it. “I’m not judging you. My childhood wasn’t exactly bucolic splendor. This is the first one I was ever on, first time I came here with Clint. Not that long ago, actually.”

The pressure of his knees against hers increased as he leaned forward. “Is that what you saw?” he asked. “Your childhood?”

She felt her throat tighten and didn’t answer. He kept going. “You don’t have to tell me the details. You just looked so…shattered. I couldn’t think of anything else that might have bothered you as much as that. If you want to talk I’m here, Nat. I’m not judging you, either.” He was so goddamn earnest. It was beyond irritating. Of course Captain America was fine. He wasn’t rattled to his core by whatever he had seen. He wasn’t reaching out because he desperately needed someone. He just wanted to help poor, _shattered_ Natasha.

“You first, Rogers,” she countered. “If we’re trading ghost stories in the woods, you definitely get to go first.” She knew on some level that she was stalling, and that Steve was just trying to offer her support, like any normal human being ought to do for a friend in need. But she wasn’t normal, hadn’t been for as long as she could remember. She felt raw and exposed. Mostly, she was pissed at Steve for being so lily white in comparison.

He seemed to nod. “That’s fair. Truth is, I’ve been sitting here for a while, trying to figure it all out. I think I probably saw what I did because of something Ultron said to me, just before. He was mocking me. Called me ‘God’s righteous man.’ He basically said I was fooling myself if I thought I could ever have any kind of a life without a war in it.”

Steve looked toward the sky, but the stars were hidden from view. “What I saw was…the end of the war. I was surrounded by this huge crowd of strangers. Everyone was dancing and drinking. But it was chaotic. The images were disjointed. Everything was too loud, too intense. Colors were too bright. There were these random flashes of light and laughing that was almost screaming, if that makes any sense. I didn’t feel happy or relieved, like you’d expect. I didn’t feel anything really. I was just confused and pretty uneasy. I somehow knew I didn’t belong there. And then just like that,” he snapped his fingers, “everyone vanished. The room was totally empty. Totally quiet. I was alone.” He snorted. “Guess you don’t have to be Freud to figure out what that might represent.”

He began to rap his knuckles distractedly against the rubber of the tire, beating a hollow cadence. “For a long time, even before everything happened with S.H.I.E.L.D., I’ve been thinking that I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, Nat. I only ever wanted to serve. That was all I knew. But lately…I guess even now that we’re all back together, there are days when I don’t really understand who—or what—I’m working for. I don’t know what it means, if it means anything, or if it’s actually helping anyone. I don’t…” he trailed off, sounding lost.

“You don’t what?” she prompted.

“I don’t _fit_ , Nat. I’m not sure I ever will. Sam asked me once what would make me happy. I honestly had no idea how to answer. Still don’t. I know I wanna help people, use whatever I’ve been given to do some kind of good. But sometimes it seems like fighting is all there is. It never ends, you know? No matter how many battles we win, there’ll always be more. It’ll never be over. Maybe I’m afraid Ultron was right. Maybe violence is all I’m meant for, all I was ever meant for.

Tony said something that really bothered me, too. He said, don’t we fight so we can end the fight? Don’t we all just want to go home? What if, deep down, I don’t really want the fighting to end? As much as I hate it, what if I’m more scared of the fact that there’s nothing else? At the end of the day, I don’t have any of this—” he gestured toward the farmhouse, ”—to go back to. No home. No family. I maybe never will.”

Natasha’s anger had evaporated as he talked. He sounded hopeless in a way she hadn’t heard from him before. It was scary. Steve was their rock. What happened today had clearly messed with his head as badly as it had hers. She couldn’t help but snicker.

“Something funny?” he asked defensively.

“Not funny. Just ironic. You and I are…kind of in the same boat, Rogers. There was a time not long ago when I was saying the same thing to you. That I didn’t know what I was doing, or who I was doing it for. You wouldn’t let me wallow, and I’m not gonna let you. Of course you’re meant for more than violence. That’s just—it’s obvious. You’re a leader. You inspire people. And there’s a reason you don’t blow up everything in sight like Tony does. Why you use a shield instead of a weapon. You don’t want to hurt anybody, Steve, you want to protect people from hurt. That’s very different.”

She hesitated. The rough surface of the rope bit hard into her palm. “You wanna know what I saw today? You’re right. I saw the Red Room. It was like you described. Strange. Intense. Nothing was what it seemed to be.” She swallowed hard. “I saw myself. Hurting people. I was good at it. If anyone on this team is only fit for violence, Rogers, hate to tell you but I win that contest all day long.”

“Natasha…” he began.

“I saw something else,” she rushed on. Better to rip the band-aid off in one go. “I’m sure you read about it in my file when S.H.I.E.L.D. made us partners. In the Red Room, there’s a…a graduation ceremony. They sterilize you. Makes everything more efficient, easier. Even killing. They take away the only thing that might ever matter more than the mission.” She was glad she couldn’t see his face. “No home. No family. No place in the world. Check, check, and check. Looks like I win again, Rogers.” Her voice was barely a whisper as she finished.

He gripped her knees tightly with his own. “I hate that they took so much from you. But Natasha, ultimately you made a different choice. It’s your life, not theirs. To hell with them. Even after all that torture, you knew you could be better. You became the person _you_ wanted to be.”

It was a little easier to breathe, now that she had said the worst of it out loud. She felt lighter. “Like I said, same boat. We should go back. Last thing either of us needs is Tony waking up and realizing we’re both gone. You think he harasses you now?” She carefully pulled her legs out of the swing and slipped to the ground.

Natasha watched the moon as it dropped toward the horizon. She knew he was following, and called back softly over her shoulder, “Someday soon Clint will retire and build Laura the craft room of her dreams. And when all these other superhumans are flying or jumping up to the top of the skyscraper to beat the bad guys, I promise you this: you’ll always have an elevator buddy in me.”

Behind her, Steve laughed. It was a good sound. “Stairs are healthier for you. Better option in an emergency situation, too.”

“Shut up, Rogers. Let’s make some breakfast. I’m starving.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For as much as people talk about how Steve and Natasha are opposites, they really have an awful lot in common.

**[After _Age of Ultron (2015)_ ]**

Everyone else had gone, but she had stayed. She, the person others thought most self-serving, most likely to run when things got tough. But he knew better. She stood her ground and she fought, even though her risk was greater than almost anyone else’s. How strange, and yet not strange at all, that she more than everyone else should come to be the person he most counted on, most trusted.

Anyone who thought they were different wasn’t paying attention. In every way that mattered, they were the same. Brave, reckless with their own safety. Clever and charming and lethal. Isolated by circumstance, then isolated by choice. Lonely. Too closed off to ever admit it to anyone.

It wasn’t a conscious decision they made to start spending time together. He wanted to practice Russian and asked if she could recommend good books to read, movies to watch. On rare nights when there was no mission, they picked one of the spartan apartments they occupied in the training center and watched together. Neither wanted to think too much about what it meant.

Occasionally he would ask her to stop the movie, explain some expression he had never heard. Watch her mouth carefully as she sounded out each word. Sometimes she would casually slip into Russian while they were talking. He wasn’t one to initiate, but he would follow her lead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Movie nights at the Avengers Compound.
> 
> [Movies are "Dr. Zhivago" (1965) and "Gone with the Wind" (1940).]

**[After _Age of Ultron (2015)_ ]**

“Whaddya think?”

“Pretty sad.”

“Sad and Russian are pretty much synonymous. You didn’t like it?”

“No, I did. Not sure the doctor was such a good guy. Felt bad for him, but still.”

“He got his in the end. Lost everything.”

“I guess, but a lot of other people paid the price for his selfishness.”

“People don’t always do the right thing, Rogers. That wasn’t any different even in the stone ages, when you were a kid.” She smirked over the lip of the beer bottle.

“Not saying it was.” A pause. “I’m kinda surprised you like that one. Seems too…sentimental, maybe? For you, I mean.”

She shrugged, played it off. “It’s an old movie about an idealistic guy caught up in war. Figured it was right up your alley.”

He wasn’t buying it. The raised eyebrow said as much.

“What? No, ok, you found me out, Rogers. I’m a starry-eyed romantic. Check behind the secret panel and you’ll find my Harlequin stash. It’s right under the Uzi.”

“What’s…?”

“Novels. Cheesy ones. Been in a bookstore lately?” He nodded. “It’s the pink section you sprinted by, averting your eyes and blushing.”

“Hilarious. You still haven’t explained why you like that movie.”

“It’s about Russia imploding. What’s not to like?”

“Right.” He definitely wasn’t buying it.

**~~~**

“How have you never seen this? Talk about a classic.”

“I must have skipped my ‘American Cultural Brainwashing’ sessions that month. Seriously? This thing is like five days long.”

“I remember walking up to Fulton—the, uhhhh,” tapping his leg, suddenly snapping, “the Majestic—with Bucky, must’ve been ’40 or ’41. Just before the war. Never saw anything like it.”

“First talkie, huh?” The movie case she was reading obscured most of her face, but her eyes were dancing.

“Always the geriatric jokes. Wanna know what I realized the other day, Romanoff? There’s an argument to be made that I’m actually _younger_ than you.”

The case lowered.

“You were born in the fall of ’84, right? That makes you thirty-one.”

Her amusement evaporated. “And?”

“And I was born in 1918…”

“Which makes you two hundred and twelve.”

“Strictly speaking, ninety-seven. But I was out of commission for sixty-seven of those years. Which—one could argue—actually makes me thirty. Ergo, younger than you.” He folded his arms, pleased with himself.

“Ergo, you’re full of it, Rogers.” The case came back up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few drabbles that were practice exercises in concise character development.

**[After _Age of Ultron_ (2015)]**

She held herself apart from the rest of the team. She suspected they thought her cold, arrogant. She didn’t mind them thinking that. Misperception deflected curiosity. She stayed separate because it was safer. She wasn’t like them. Not fundamentally good. Not noble. She wasn’t melodramatic enough to think herself _tainted_ or _damaged_ or any such nonsense. Love was for children and so was self-pity. There were things she had done that were regrettable, but regret itself was useless. Regret could not resurrect the dead. All she could do was wake up each day and choose a different path. Do better.

He held himself apart from the rest of the team. It was the right thing to do. He was their commanding officer, after all. An effective leader gave his people space, respite from his constant presence. He suspected they thought him a prude, or at the very least a goody two-shoes, as the expression once went. It bothered him a bit, that they might think that. They probably wondered whether he wasn’t happier alone, surrounded by memories of people and places long since gone. They would be wrong. He was resigned, but not happy. Wishing could not resurrect the dead. 

**~~~**

They shared a deep dislike of cold. She because she was Russian; it was part of her cultural patrimony, maybe her DNA, to loathe the winter. He because his dreams were filled with needles of ice and endless, desiccated screams that burned his throat but made no sound and no difference. No one ever came.

He didn’t think he could actually remember being in the ice. He thought maybe his dreams were all a product of his imagination, his brain trying to process what he knew to be true but couldn’t recall. Thinking of them as nightmares was bad enough; reclassifying them as memories might be more than he could handle.

He never spoke about that time with anyone. And no one really expected him to, because weirdly, they all knew more of his story than he did. They heard about him all their lives, vividly remembered the excitement of his discovery. He had none of that backstory, that context. One moment he was there, the next he was here, like the Buck Rogers pulp magazines he scavenged as a kid but found too fantastical to comprehend.

There were days when he would find himself gripping the edge of a table or the handle of a mug too tightly, trying to will himself to believe that this alien reality wasn’t some sort of fever dream. Maybe he was still in the ice. Maybe he was still in Erskine’s chamber. Maybe he was hallucinating on a dank bed next to Ma, dying of tuberculosis alongside her. Who could even tell what was real?

**~~~**

She was a trained ballerina. Except that she wasn’t. It was a lie. One of many, both by and about her. She moved with a dancer’s grace. But her purpose in movement was not creation or beauty. She told herself that the havoc she wreaked was in service to a greater good, which made it somehow acceptable. This was another lie.

Steve almost never talked about his past, the war or before. She knew some things from reports. Others she surmised; you weren’t partners with someone for years without guessing at things he maybe didn’t want you to know. And she excelled at reading other people.

He let slip one afternoon in the conference room that he had never been out dancing. Her first impulse was to tease. Her second was to wonder if she ever had, either.

**~~~**

He didn’t require much sleep. Nights were a good opportunity to catch up on reading or prep for missions. Only the quiet bothered him. The tenement in Brooklyn had paper-thin walls; he had grown up surrounded by sounds of life at all hours. The center was metallic and sterile; he found its silences brittle. Unnerving.

The common area had a glass wall that overlooked the adjoining field, not much to see in the middle of the night. He found Natasha there sometimes, legs crossed on the couch, staring into the blackness.

She had nightmares of her own. She never brought it up, but he knew. He recognized the hollow look from his own mirror. He wondered if he should try to get her to talk. He knew he wouldn’t want to when the situation was reversed, so he never pressed.

They sat, side-by-side, and looked for nothing. The silence was friendlier.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation in the quinjet.

**[After _Age of Ultron_ (2015)]**

“Can I see some of them?”

“They’re nothing fancy, Nat. Just sketches. I don’t ever really show them to anyone.”

“Come on. I’m not going to make fun of them, if that’s what you’re worried about. Even I’m not _that_ cruel.”

She wasn’t getting anywhere. His focus was on the situation report he was reviewing.

“What do you do with them? I don’t remember ever seeing any lying around your place.” It was really more of a barracks, devoid of any personal effects. Hers was only marginally better.

He shrugged distractedly. “I have a little portfolio case. Sam gave it to me, actually. My last birthday.”

“You showed them to Sam?” It sounded petulant, even to her ears. There was an implication in the question, a suggestion of ranking that was uncomfortable.

“No, I…” he finally looked up, surprised. “We were discussing equipment modifications and I made a few quick sketches. He mentioned he remembered reading that I used to draw. Next thing I knew, birthday portfolio. End of story, Nat, honestly.”

The quinjet bounced over an air pocket, then leveled.

“If it’s that important to you, you can look at them when we get back.”

“It’s…I was just curious. Kinda my job to be nosy.” She was trying to lighten the mood, re-establish distance. “You’re probably just embarrassed because they’re all glamour shots with the shield.”

He adjusted the comm links. “I’m relieved you’re not gonna make fun of me.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Low is Natasha's area of expertise.

**[After _Age of Ultron_ (2015)]**

“You winced. I saw it.” He pushed damp hair out of his eyes.

“I did not. I’m fine.”

“Congratulations, Romanoff. That’s the first bad lie you’ve ever told me.”

“I’m not lying. I’m fine.”

“You know I can’t let you back out in the field if you aren’t 100%. Even if you aren’t concerned about yourself—which I am, by the way—I can’t let anyone else get hurt or killed because you’re comprised.”

“Come on, Rogers. It’s been three weeks.”

“And you know the doc said it would be four to six before you’d be ready for duty.” He was a shade more annoyed than he would be with Sam or Wanda.

“What does it take you? Two, three days to recover from a gunshot wound? Six weeks on the bench over something this _nothing_ is just stupid!”

He thought she was leaving in a temper, but she crossed to the equipment wall and grabbed the shield propped against it. Sweat sealed the shirt to her back.

“Hit me.”

“Nat…”

“I’m serious. Hit me. As hard as you can. If I can’t take it, I’ll pull myself off the roster.”

“I am not going to hit you. What if you get reinjured?”

She waived the shield with one arm. Sunlight refracted across the walls. “What do you think this is for?”

“Natasha!”

“What’s the matter, Sir Galahad? Afraid to hit a girl?” Her tone was flirtatious, a dare.

“That’s low, even for you.” But he slowly assumed the stance for attack.

She knew him well. Knew he respected her abilities enough to hit hard, while also wanting to pull his punch just enough to ensure she wasn’t hurt. All this would run through his head in the millisecond he struck, laser-focused on the center of the shield…

He would not be prepared when she shifted her weight, dropped and pivoted around the side of the shield, and slammed him across the shoulders as momentum carried him forward.

He hit the practice floor hard. She was on his back, pinning him before he could turn over.

“Low is my area of expertise, Captain.” Her fingers were strong on his wrists. They would leave a mark.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nat is big mad.

**[After _Age of Ultron_ (2015)]**

He knew before the door to his apartment slid open that he would find her there.

“Crack security we have in this place,” he teased, trying to gauge how angry she was. She didn’t move or respond, gaze fixed on the far wall. It was bad.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t expect me to be here.”

“I appreciate you waiting and not yelling at me in front of the team.” He was joking, but also not.

“You know damn well that in the field, you’re in charge and we all respect that. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to hold my tongue like a good little girl in private.”

“I know, Nat. I would never expect you to. I just…”

“No, you know what, I have the floor.” She jumped up from the chair and crossed the room. “That was monumentally stupid and reckless, Rogers. You’re lucky you’re only in a sling and not a body bag. I know your definition of a good man is the one willing to lay down on the wire for somebody else, but you don’t always have to be so _goddamn eager_ to be first in line to die.”

There were bright spots of color on her cheeks. He couldn’t remember seeing her this worked up. She was well practiced at hiding how she felt about things. He was uneasy, and a little ashamed.

“I admit, it wasn’t my best call. I'm sorry. I didn’t think it all the way through and you and Rhodey could've—“

“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t try to make this about failing to protect the rest of the team. That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. You were the one in trouble, Steve. You were the one that got hurt.” She gestured toward the fabric immobilizing his arm. “Do you have any idea what the impact would be on this team, what the impact would be on the world, for chrissake, if you…” She stopped short, took a half-step backward. For a long moment they just stared at each other.

Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke again. “Do you hate it here that much?”

He smiled at her tiredly, a flag of truce. “Natasha, please don’t make this into something it isn’t. I said I was sorry, and I meant it. I made a mistake. It does happen from time to time. Shocking, I know.”

She didn’t believe him, and they both knew it. She came closer, so near he could feel her breath when she spoke. “Don’t let it happen again.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fact that she likes spending time with him is nobody's business but hers.

**[After _Age of Ultron_ (2015)]**

“Can I ask you something? Off the record?”

They were on a trail spur a few miles beyond the perimeter of the base. A six-mile run uphill was barely exercise for Steve, though he was diplomatic enough not to say so.

He seemed embarrassed. “What do you think is going on with…between Wanda and Vision?”

Natasha took a swallow of tepid water. “If it were anybody else I’d say it was fairly obvious. He’s following her around like a puppy, overly protective in the field, thinks _all_ her statements are profound.” She rolled her eyes. “Pretty standard crush behavior. Given who we’re talking about, though…a little less clear.”

He nodded, watching the birds land on the water by the far shore. “Yeah, that’s pretty much where I came down on it. Can he, do you think? Have feelings for her?”

Relationships were hardly her forte. “I can’t pretend to understand how it’s possible. To be fair, I don’t understand how it’s possible for people _not_ made of Vibranium and algorithms.”

He chuckled, then looked serious again. “Do you think it’s a good idea? Not that it’s any of my business. I’m just worried about the team. She comes to me sometimes, for advice on things. I’ve been trying to think what I should say to her if she asks me for my honest opinion about it.”

“What is your honest opinion about it?”

He reached for the water bottle and smirked at her. “Hell if I know. Why do you think I’m talking to you, Romanoff?”

It was stupid how much that pleased her. “It makes sense, I guess. That they should feel… connected,” she offered.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, don’t her powers come from the same magical rock currently sitting in the middle of his forehead?” She flashed a wry smile. “I hear shared life experiences are really important in these sorts of situations.”

“Hardy har har.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, weighing what she said. “Do you think that’s a factor? That’s why he’s…” he struggled to find the precise word, “drawn to her?”

“Why is anyone _drawn_ to anyone? She also happens to be a badass. Who can apparently now fly. Which, by the way, is another thing they could do together on the weekends. Pretty easy on the eyes, too. Does it matter why he likes her?” When Steve didn’t answer right away, she continued, “I think what you’re trying to get at is, is it real?” She shifted, uncomfortable, stretching her legs. “Don’t think I can help you with that one, Cap.”

She regretted the words—and their flippant tone—the second they left her mouth. For an instant she had thought of Bruce, and now she knew Steve was, too. He glanced away, clearing his throat.

They never discussed Bruce. If it were up to her, they never would. It wasn’t one of the prouder moments of her life. It was clear to her now that in the days after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., as she struggled to figure out who she was and how she fit into this alien reality, what she had most wanted was an escape plan. Poor, gentle Bruce was the obvious out. If Steve had ever shocked her by asking if she missed Bruce, she could answer honestly that no, she didn’t. She wasn’t one for self-indulgence. At the time, it had never occurred to her to ask if what was happening was “real.” She would make it as real as it needed to be to accomplish her goals, by force of will if nothing else. All things considered, the whole incident had resolved itself in the best way possible for everyone involved. She had obviously been right on the mark about Bruce; he was long gone. She had no regrets that she was still here.

“Do you think it’ll work? Wanda and Vision?” The fact that he felt the need to specify who he was talking about confirmed her suspicion.

“Are you asking me for general predictions? Or did you want to hear my assessment of the technical—mechanical?—specifics of how they will…”

“No.” He interrupted firmly. “That is not at all a thing that I want to hear about. Or think about. Thanks very much for that.”

“Any time, boss,” she teased lightly, standing and offering him a hand up. “Come on. First one back to the bike buys pie. And ice cream.”

“What, again?”

She gestured toward the path. “I gotta have some incentive to voluntarily come on the Bataan Death March here.”

He shook his head in amusement, then started down the slope, calling back, “My charm isn’t enough?”

It was, but that was nobody’s business but hers.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this when I saw the BTS "Civil War" funeral photos, before the film came out.

**[Alternative scene for _Captain America: Civil War_ (2016)]**

He rarely heard her coming. But the church was empty now and her heels clicked crisply on the stone floor. The fabric of her skirt sighed as she slid across the wooden pew.

“What are you doing here? You didn’t know her.”

“I know you.” It was simple and quiet, and gave him an odd sense of regret. The scent of flowers still hung, cloying, in the air. “Why didn’t you go to the cemetery?”

“Didn’t seem right.”

“How so?”

He never spoke about Peggy to anyone. It was too raw, even after all these years. Natasha had asked him before about the unknown woman in a black and white photograph, at once so vibrantly alive and painfully frozen. No, that wasn’t quite right. Peggy had gone on, grown and changed. He was the one who was frozen.

But something had been ripped away from him, and words began to seep out around the edges of the wound.

“When I first…woke up, I had a lot of time to myself. Used to think about her, more than I should. What might have been. Then I visited her here in D.C.. Saw all the pictures of her family. Happy memories. Kids and grandkids and her…her husband. Realized how wrong it was of me to wish that life away. Worst kind of selfish.”

She was shaking her head before he finished.

“Jesus, Rogers, could you be any harder on yourself? Her husband’s been gone for a long time, and I can’t believe that any of her family would begrudge you the right to stand at her grave and say good-bye.” A pause. “You loved her.”

He and Peggy had never actually had the chance to find out if the thing between them was love. It was the loss of the chance that was hardest to bear. But he could never explain that the right way, so he said, “I made my good-byes a long time ago. More than once.”

The faint sounds of traffic and life outside the walls drifted down the nave from a still-open door. It felt far away and unreal in the cool dim of the chapel. When Natasha reached out her hand, it was vaguely surprising in its solidness and warmth.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before "Infinity War" came out, I assumed everyone on #TeamCap fled to Wakanda.

**[After _Captain America: Civil War_ (2016)]**

“It’s good to see you, Nat. Really good.”

“You, too.” She smirked. “Nice digs.” Brilliant African sunlight flooded the apartment.

“I figured it wouldn’t take you long to figure out where we were.”

“Took maybe ten seconds. I had some things to sort out before I could get here.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Side trip to the beauty parlor?” The familiar red sweep of her hair was gone. Messy blond waves barely reached her shoulders.

Natasha rolled her eyes. Every once in a while, you could start to forget that Steve Rogers was born during the Great War, but then he went and reminded you by casually saying things like _beauty parlor_. “What about you? Did you forget to pack your razor when you went _on the lam_?”

Steve rubbed the dark stubble on his chin, rueful. They were hiding behind the flimsiest of pretenses.

She sat down on the couch. He joined her, elbows on knees. “What happened, after we left? Did they…were you reprimanded? Punished somehow?” She had made her own choice to help him, but he was contrite. His choices had forced her hand.

“Tony raged at me for a while. He’s gonna be a shitty C.O.. I’m glad to be out of it, to be honest.”

“Then why come here, right back in it?”

“Because you were a good C.O.. And you’re better when I’m with you.” It wasn’t a question.

He considered his clasped hands for a moment, glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah, I am.”

She was looking steadily at him. He had learned it was best not to try to fill the silences with Natasha. He waited for her to decide what came next. After a moment, she sat forward. Her arm was warm against his in the chill of the air conditioning.

“You’re not C.O. now,” she said quietly.

“I’m not.” In truth, he hadn’t felt so adrift since his first days out of the ice.

“You need me here. We’re partners.” There was a question there, it just didn’t want to be noticed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My favorite one, tbh. 
> 
> Loved, loved, loved "Infinity War."

**[After _Avengers: Infinity War_ (2018)]**

The dull ache in her head had compressed into a bright white needle of agony between her eyes. She rested her forehead against the window glass, hoping its coolness would beat back the nausea. It didn’t.

The door at the far end of the hallway opened, then closed. Of course Steve had noticed when she fled the debrief. She always knew when he was hurting.

“Tasha?” Given the circumstances, it would have been ridiculous of him to ask if she was alright, and he didn’t. But his voice was full of concern, caring. It touched and confused her, even after all these years.

Her head felt too heavy to lift and she didn’t trust herself to speak. She held out her hand, offering her phone without comment. He took it—she caught sight of the dried blood still lacing his knuckles—and glanced down in silence. There were two lines of text on the screen.

_/tell me you’re ok/_

_/i’m here they’re gone/_

She felt, rather than saw, as he lifted his face to stare at her. “Clint?” he asked after a moment. She couldn’t move for fear that she would vomit with the pain.

Steve stepped forward, lowering his own head so close to hers that she felt his words on the back of her neck. “God, I’m so sorry. Laura…the kids,” his voice cracked. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

Having her own suffering reflected back through the prism of his sympathy was infinitely worse. She watched as the dark smudges of her tears began to pool on the sill below. Steve took her hands. He did not promise that everything was going to be ok.

**~~~**

The debrief dragged on for hours, everyone exhausted and terrified and grieving. They were going in circles, getting nowhere excruciatingly slowly. Sometime in the fourth hour, Steve started to drift, to slip into a kind of delayed shock. He realized the room was empty when Natasha squeezed his arm. “Earth to Steve,” she prodded, clearly not for the first time. Her eyes were red-rimmed from their time in the hallway and her voice was raspy, hollow.

His eyes wouldn’t focus properly. Shifting slightly in the chair reminded him sharply of potential broken ribs. “Sorry. What did I miss?”

“Nothing that matters a damn. Thor is going to do some…” she twirled her finger limply toward the ceiling, concisely indicating _extraterrestrial_ , “investigating. Wants us to wait here for at least a week until he can get back with a report. T’Challa’s mother says we can stay as long as we need. Somehow I’m guessing we’re not a global law enforcement priority just now.” As she sighed, he saw her wince and knew she had hidden damage of her own.

“No word on Sam?” He had asked at least six times since they got back to the city. She didn’t look up as she shook her head. T’Challa. Wanda. Vision. Clint’s family. All gone. They both knew Sam was gone, too, but hope was cruel like that.

“Come on,” she said after a silent minute, leaning heavily on the table to stand.

“Where?” He couldn’t think. Everything was jumbled. He had a sudden, clear image of the tenement, of lying on a thin pallet in the kitchen, struggling to warm himself next to the small woodstove. Why would he think of that just now? He was dazed and suffering then. Breathing hurt too, for different reasons.

“You’re scaring me, Rogers. You gotta focus, ok?” Natasha’s blond hair seemed to phase in and out of the tattered yellow curtain over the wash basin as she leaned in front of him. He wanted to reach out, to know which one was real. “Steve, can you hear me?” She touched his face and that shifted something, grounded him just enough that his brain could form an answer. “Yeah. Sorry. Pretty out of it.”

“Clearly.” She offered him a hand up out of the chair, and they made their way into the corridor. The initial chaos in the building had settled some. The halls were less crowded now. An eerie stillness had settled in pockets, broken occasionally by the sound of weeping. Steve thought he recognized the Wakandan general through a far window, barking orders at a knot of her soldiers, but saw no other familiar faces.

“We should help them.”

“We haven’t slept or eaten for days. We’re no good to anyone right now. Okoye ordered us to stand down. She has it under control.” Natasha was somehow leading him through areas he couldn’t remember visiting before. All the metal and glass bled together into endless silver ribbons of sameness. How did she know where she was going?

“Where is everyone else?”

“Some VIP guest area on the west side of the building.”

“Where are we?”

“East side.” She stopped abruptly and turned. “Do you not know where you are? That’s your room.” She gestured down the hall. “They kept it for you. You know that.” She stepped closer, looked hard at his face. “Tell me the truth, Steve. Did you take a hit to the head?”

He had a strange impulse to lie, to tell her he was used to approaching from the other direction, or some equally transparent and stupid excuse. But he didn’t have the energy to try. His thoughts while walking had drifted to Bucky, young and undamaged, keeping a vigil by his side in that threadbare, frigid kitchen. Steve felt the old, remembered grief well up inside him. Now a sickbed reformed in his mind’s eye, but this time it was Sam waiting patiently in a hospital chair. Steve was crying before he realized it. Why did he have to keep outliving everyone?

“Hey,” she said, startled, grasping his hand. She didn’t offer empty promises. _It’s going to be ok. We’ll fix this. Everything will be fine._ Instead she said, “I’m here.” Her eyes were heavy with tiredness, and there were dark patches of mud, or maybe blood, in her hair. He didn’t feel better, exactly, but hearing her say it gave him a sense of being tethered to something, as though he couldn’t spin off into nothingness, dissolve. They could hold each other’s pieces together.

She pulled him into the apartment, familiar enough with its layout that she didn’t feel the need to turn on any lights. Pushing him gently onto a bench, she knelt down and began to tug on the fastenings of his suit, asking, “How bad are you hurt?” “Not bad,” he answered automatically; it was habit to ignore his own needs. “Uh huh.” She wasn’t buying it. He grunted as she pulled the outer layer of padding away from his chest, and pressed lightly on his side. “So these ribs aren’t broken, then?” It was useless to try and get anything past her. Someday he should really give up.

She sat back on her heels, pressing three fingers hard to the bridge of her nose. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, Rogers. You’re gonna get into that shower and stay there for a long time. I’m going back out to find some meds.” She raised a warning hand as he began to protest. “And spare me the martyr argument that you don’t need them as much as somebody else. You’re in pain and that is one goddamn thing we can do something about tonight. No arguments. I’ll see if I can find some food, too. Then I’m going to take a shower. And we’re both going to sleep. For days, if necessary. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” For a moment they sat in the quiet of the darkening room, defeated. Natasha sighed and began to stand, but Steve reached out, threading fingers around her wrist.

“Wait.” He pulled her forward slowly, meeting her in the space between them. “Just stay for a minute,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers, to protect the fragile cord between them as the last light faded.

**~~~**

The storm broke in the middle of the night. A crash of thunder shook Natasha awake from troubled dreams. She was sitting up, panting, before she understood what was happening. “Hey, it’s ok. You’re ok,” she heard from the darkness at her side.

They had fallen asleep picking at the food she found during the hunt for medical supplies. She had bandaged Steve’s ribs and they laid down together in exhaustion, food between them for sharing. Steve had dropped off first. She watched him for a while, the steady rhythm of his breath calming her enough to close her own eyes at last.

Now her heart was hammering again, startled into consciousness against her will. Steve shifted next to her, raising himself onto an elbow with a tiny expulsion of air that Natasha knew meant he was still in pain. He reached across the remnants of the scavenged meal, and finding that he was not close enough to reach, rubbed the side of his finger gently up and down her arm. It was a gesture of comfort, but also startlingly intimate. Natasha stopped breathing.

“You’re freezing,” he said softly. The Wakandan night air was stifling and humid but the room was cold, and they were both on top of the bedcovers. She watched in confusion as Steve gathered the half-empty containers and dropped them over the edge of his side of the bed. Even in the faint light, she noticed how he flinched as he twisted, one side to the other. She didn’t fully understand what he was doing until he faced her again. “C’mere?”

Before, she might have taken longer to consider. But the time for considered action, for weighing implications, was dead and gone. She curled into him, grateful for the warmth, fitting her head into the crook of his shoulder. Her hair was still damp from the shower. He reached across and grabbed the covers, pulling heavy fabric over both of them in a kind of protective cocoon. _A shield_ , she thought, surprised at her own sentimentality.

Neither could fall back asleep. The horrors of the day, and the days coming, were too immediate. Their closeness should have been confusing and awkward, but it wasn’t. Steve began again to trace the line of her shoulder, and she had a sudden, ugly memory.

“When I was young,” she whispered, moving her cheek over the softness of his t-shirt, “in the Red Room, they didn’t want us to try and escape. At night, I mean. They would…handcuff us to our beds.” She felt him tense. “Took me years to sleep without my arm over my head.”

She wasn’t precisely sure why she was telling him. It was something she never talked about. Maybe she was still in shock. “Sorry, don’t know why…” she muttered, embarrassed, but he interrupted. “Don’t apologize. Don’t ever apologize, Nat, not for…” He seemed at a loss as to how to finish. Silent for a moment, he suddenly demanded, “How are we even still alive? Either of us? All the unbelievably evil things they did to you—” he broke off, his voice cracking with anger and sadness.

A flash of lightening flooded the room for an instant, before the darkness closed back in.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I held out hope right until the trailer for "Endgame." Alas, it was not to be, at least in canon. :-)

**[Alternate scene for _Avengers: Endgame_ (2019)]**

Steve stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He was still holding a warm cloth that had given no relief to his tired eyes. He searched his face for signs of change wondering, not for the first time, whether he would ever grow old. He knew he would die; only the how and when were yet to be determined.

Preparations for the mission had taken longer than they anticipated, but they were ready now and would leave tomorrow. Everyone’s mood was somber but resigned. Even the weather was dismal.

He realized Natasha was in the doorway watching. Her braided hair dripped steadily down her shoulder.

“Still raining?” he teased, smiling softly into the mirror. She had taken to sitting alone in a small courtyard for long stretches of time. Weather conditions seemed to make no difference.

She smiled tightly but didn’t speak.

“What’s up?” he asked. “Something wrong?”

“I was talking to Clint.”

“Tell me,” he said, dropping the cloth in the basin.

She seemed to pull back as he approached, shaking her head and looking down. After a moment she said, “We have what we have when we have it, I guess.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“And then it’s gone. Just…gone.”

Clint’s suffering was on her mind, but he couldn’t help thinking of Peggy. “Sometimes that’s how it happens.” He reached out and squeezed her forearm gently.

“I’m scared, Steve.” In all the time they had known each other, she had never admitted that.

“Me, too.”

“Not for myself,” she clarified.

“Me neither,” he admitted. “But Nat, we gotta try. You said so yourself. We owe it to all the people we lost. We owe it to Clint, and everyone else who is hurting. You know we do.”

She looked down at his hand on her arm. “When I was trained, they drilled it into our heads, over and over: don’t get attached. To anything or anyone. Attachment is fatal.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I screwed up, Rogers. I got attached.”

He tentatively threaded his fingers through hers. A bead of cool water slipped from her cuff down his palm. “Me, too.”

She was stricken, all urgency. “I need you to promise me something, Steve. For real. I need you to swear to me that you will not fall on any grenades. Promise me.”

“Nat—” he began in protest.

“Don’t. Don’t give me some stirring speech about the greater good. I can’t deal with that right now. What I want from you is your word. We don’t need a martyr, Steve. We need _you_ , alive.”

“I promise, ok? I promise that I won’t do anything stupid. If there is any other way that I can see, Nat, I _will_ take it.” He carefully wiped away a drop as it slid down her temple.

“And you’re always honest,” she said quietly.

“I do my bes—” he demurred, but the rest of the thought went unspoken as she kissed him.

The room was still but for the pebble rap of rain on the windows.


End file.
